Guilty
by white lotus
Summary: Miles Edgeworth puts his conscience on trial.


**A/N - **I met Phoenix Wright first. But I fell for Miles Edgeworth much, much harder. So, this is an Edgeworth-centric piece, inspired by the small exchange he and Wright have at the end of the third case of _Ace Attorney_.

The genre of this has me paranoid - I'm not the best writer of angst, and I apologise for any inaccuracies - I am yet to play the game (it's not available here until next month).

* * *

_for Su-chan:_

_in the name of friendship, may ours last long beyond this lifetime_

* * *

**Guilty**

_How do you plead?_

He'd probably be surprised to learn that he hasn't changed much.

Then again, perhaps not.

Fifteen years has done little to starve the unassuming loyalty and innocent wonder from his gaze, and Miles Edgeworth, Demon Attorney and Genius Prosecutor can't help but marvel at how someone possessing Wright's unwavering and foolishly _blind_ sense of trust has been able to make it so far in the ruthless profession of Law.

"Hard work and guts, Edgeworth," he'd probably say.

If anything, it was thanks to excessive coddling from that woman, Fey.

Their first trial together and against each other, over her death, presented itself in vivid colour and strident sound, like the events of some twisted stage play: the strain worn on Wright's face from the loss of a senior partner and friend, and the cruel circumstance that would land Mia's younger sister, and later, himself in the defendant's seat - a mask of tired, truth-driven determination.

Miles' own voice, in the hollow, practised tones of an actor, focused entirely on the terrible desire to see this verdict deem in his favour, if only so it might have caused Wright to hate him a little more than he should

_(but doesn't)_.

Isn't that the way with everything in this world, though? If you want something done right, you're really got no hope unless you do it yourself.

_Allow me to present to the Court, Your Honour..._

His flawless win record, shattered in the blink of an eye - in the time it took to utter three syllables. This was his excuse. His reason for gathering every last figment of hatred he could harbour for _that _man without driving himself to something barely short of rage-ridden insanity.

Wright fights like an amateur - awkward, inexperienced and tactless, eyes clenched shut and blows swung that are backed by nothing but reckless faith - that which makes the impact of them only more brutal.

You need facts to argue a case in court - cold, hard evidence and undeniable logic. And yet this man dared to raise entire raw concepts based on instinct and intuition alone.

"Just doing my job," he'd probably say, and grin.

Their second trial together and against each other, over an accidental murder, drove them like sightless creatures in a maze. Silence barred all routes to conclusion, and desperate pursuit of what remained lead nowhere - it was two days in, with the same, pointless records spread about his desk, crushed white polystyrene between his fingers, cheap, hot black coffee running scalding rivulets down his arm and a horrified detective staring from the doorway of his office, that Miles understood that he had been betrayed.

It was standing in court, watching Wright scramble precariously though wild and at times, almost far-fetched swipes at Ms. Vasquez's testimonies that Miles, the Demon Prosecutor, was struck almost painfully with the realisation of the price that was to be paid for the revival of his win record.

In a single moment, he saw his entire career mapped out in forged proof and false victories and saw that in mindlessly grasping for perfection, had almost lost sight of the simple oath that he had sworn to himself the day Yanni Yogi was acquitted of his father's murder.

_Objection! These actions clearly contradict the stated motive!_

Did he not aim to see that the guilty received the punishment they deserved?

Did he not despise crime as the basis of that very purpose?

Then how did it make him any less of a criminal himself if he urged an innocent man to his death and allowed the murderer to walk free?

As the words of the Defence struck out, halting and alone through the silent courtroom, Miles found himself facing the baffling prospect of leaving this maze - unwittingly, Wright had offered his hand and a way out.

Miles declined the outstretched hand. But he agreed to quietly follow and see where it would take him.

Failing a second time shouldn't have brought relief, and the verdict left him unsettled and wanting. In search of the justification that his actions demanded, yet afraid of finding them at the same time, Miles did something extremely out of character. He approached Wright.

And almost immediately called a retreat.

In hindsight, it wouldn't have stung so much had Wright met him with anger and reproach for all those years spent - wasted - waiting and hoping and never giving up, because maybe, just _maybe_, something he had written in his latest letter would reach through and _move_ Miles into penning back... not even an explanation anymore, just a quick -

_"Phoenix. I miss you too. Take care."_

And Miles braced himself for the accusations of neglect, prepared to accept the full burden of fifteen years of unanswered concern and uneased frustration -

- but the simpleton just stood there, frowning slightly, fumbling his words as anxiously as he tugged at the red knot of his tie and in a single, mildly puzzled smile, forgave everything that Miles had condemned himself to receiving punishment for.

_Honestly._ If you want something done right...

"You listen to me, Phoenix Wright. Don't ever show your face in front of me again. That's what I came here to tell you."

And even though it cut him into little pieces from the inside out - hurt so much, that Miles thought he would collapse in a wretched heap and die where he stood - oh, it felt _so _good to know that he was finally achieving some measure of personal atonement with every step he took away from the only friend who cared enough to go this far to find him again.

Because as righteous as he intends and wishes himself to be, Miles Edgeworth is ultimately, and unconsciously, extremely selfish.

Crimes are only worthy of punishment, after all: countless letters and printed e-mails, some kept, most lost - whether by accident or intention, he will never find the courage to ascertain - hidden in as many different places as he can possibly imagine, as though in scattering their presence, he hopes to dull the pain in the chance of finding only one instead of the assurance that he will find all without fail.

_How do you plead?_

_Guilty, Your Honour._

He'd written replies, to each and every one of them.

He had instantly shredded them once he realised what he had almost done.

Miles knows that somewhere throughout the process of "reunion", there should have been a quiet moment with Wright and a sincere, heartfelt apology.

"Ah, it's all right," He'd probably say, and grin.

That stupid, hopeful, sheepish grin that only makes Miles want to grit his teeth with the pain it takes to guard the smile inevitably finding its way onto his own lips in response.

He knows that any apology will have come a lifetime too late.

Their third trial together isn't against one another. The spectacular stage play is reduced to silent film, static shrilling inaudible in his ears as he watches the tragedy unfold over and over and over...

Convinced that the only way through this without bringing harm to any others is strict isolation, he begins to build his fortress, a careful structure of cold rejection and flat refusal - his construction is heavy, his defences, impenetrable. Or so he thinks.

Try as he might, no insult, injury or incensed dismissal can deter the fool from taking on the case.

"Let me defend you," he says, and Miles cannot bear to look him in the eye.

So he laughs it off, as cold and disdainfully as he can - "too inexperienced, not good enough" - even a miracle cannot save him now. He turns Wright away, _for the better,_ he has to remind himself, in doses, like bitter mouthfuls of something that will only slowly kill him rather than cure him.

But hours later, the man has returned, exhausted and hopeful and desperate to talk reason into this outrageous situation, still gathering clues despite having every reason not to.

Wright offers a hand one more time.

The relief is flooding, so sweet and absolute, that Miles almost misses the following words.

"This is my chance to finally pay you back."

And suddenly, his heart feels so full, he's afraid it's going to burst.

The girl is confused, and for the sake of what is left of his pride, Miles pretends he is as well. But somewhere under the guise of two grown men, there lingers memories of childhood promises, a friendship forged in need and the will to fight against all odds to uncover the truth.

_Together._

Miles accepts his hand at last.


End file.
